


When You Speak French...

by rat_in_the_pool



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 21:16:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12690381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rat_in_the_pool/pseuds/rat_in_the_pool
Summary: “He loved making love. Not in the physical, sexual sense - though she could bet he liked that too. But in that old-world, courtly, talking dirty behind a respectable veil of suggestion, way. Except, on him, and with a face he knew looked like it did...Respectable? Only barely.”Worried about Hook post 4x12, Emma goes to check on him. They talk. They Netflix. They chill.





	When You Speak French...

 

Emma was thinking of Killian when she walked back into the loft after dropping Regina and Henry off at their place.

She’d been thinking of him all the way back from the empty house, since Henry mentioned villains and happy endings, even. Or, no, it was more accurate to say that he’d been distracting her since she kissed him goodbye at Granny’s with a promise to call him tomorrow. He’d given her that rueful smile, just as he always did when they parted. But this time it was a little more...bleak?

And really, Killian had been on her mind since their weird, stiff encounter that afternoon, the wrongness of which she now knew she had Gold to thank for.

She swallowed the bitterness that rose, thinking of the day’s events. Man, if she was feeling this twisted, Belle must be doing terrible.

This was the problem, that somewhere between the time she’d followed Henry to Storybrooke and now, she’d started to think of everyone’s well being as her responsibility. Case in point Regina comparing her to her own speech-making mother that night.

Maybe that was part of the reason she’d been so eager to run after their showdown with Zelena.

Maybe it was lucky for her overtaxed emotional capacity that Hook had seemed so damn untrustworthy when they’d first met. It had meant she didn’t have to worry about him too. Funny that now he was starting to mean more to her than anyone. Minus her son.

“Emma?”

She was jerked out of her thoughts by Mary Margaret who sat at their kitchen table cradling Neal, David nursing a cup of coffee in the chair next to them.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Uh,” Emma said, realizing she’d been standing in the doorway for much too long. “Yeah.”

David stood and walked over to lay a hand on her shoulder, peering at her.

“Are you sure, honey?” Snow asked. As usual, they acted like they shared a mind as well as a heart. Must come in handy.

“Actually,” Emma said, lifting her thumb vaguely to point behind her, “I think...I’m gonna go...”

David’s brow furrowed.

“...check on Killian,” Emma finished.

Her parents donned twin expressions of measured surprise.

“It’s a little late,” David said.

“Yeah, I might just…” Emma felt her face heat, remembering who she was talking to. “Ah.” She cleared her throat. “I might just...spend the night at Granny’s. Or whatever.”

There was a pause as this sank in. David lifted his hand from her shoulder. “Okay. That’s...that’s alright.”

Emma raised her eyebrows.

“I mean - You’re an adult. You don’t need our permission to - ” David’s face began to resemble a tomato. “You can do whatever - ”

“Please stop,” said Emma.

“That’s perfectly fine, Emma,” Snow said, serene, burping Neal absently. “Thank you for letting us know.”

“Great,” Emma mumbled, turning to go.

“Have a good time,” Snow said.

An odd choking noise came from David. Emma turned to see her mother still looking carefully innocent. Snow smiled over Neal’s knit-cap-covered head.

Emma stepped out into the hall and Snow called “Be _safe!_ ”

Emma yanked the door shut on more squawking from her father.

...

Killian was still dressed when he answered the door. Emma briefly wondered what pirates wore to bed before she could stop herself, exasperated. She cursed her mother too, for good measure. Despite what anyone might think, that wasn’t what she was here for.

“Swan?” he said in greeting, confused. She liked that he called her by her last name. She liked a lot of things about him.

“Sorry,” she said. “I know it’s late-”

“Did something happen? Is everything…?”

He reminded her of the day she’d asked him out on their first date,

“Everything’s fine, no crisis...that I know of…” She trailed off, not sure how to continue. She didn’t have much experience with this part. The talking part. She’d been okay at it with Walsh, but everything about that relationship was a toss up, what with the flying monkey factor. Hook seemed to sense her discomfort, though, because he stepped back wordlessly to let her in.

She hadn’t been in his room since they’d officially started dating.

It looked like he’d settled in. More so than she had during her brief stay at the inn. She recognized his old coat in the closet, tails hanging past his other jackets. There were books on the desk, some leather-bound, some paperback, sitting in a row next to the obligatory bottle of rum. His jacket hung over the back of the chair. He had two lamps lit, low. Good lighting for spilling your soul in whispers. Emma licked her lips.

She felt his hand, warm, on her back, as he crossed in front of her to pull out the desk chair.

“What’s on your mind, love?” he asked when she’d sat and he’d found another chair for himself. He reached for the rum and the glasses and poured for her first. He was trying to relax her and it made her smile. But she still took a decent swallow after they’d clinked their glasses.

She took a moment to study him, trying to guess how much of his appearance was artful dishabille and how much was stress, if any. Was it just the liner that made his eyes look dark? Was his hair mussed from fairy-tale, pirate product, or had he been running his hand through it out of frustration.

He just stared back, waiting.

“How are you?” she asked, finally.

He blinked and broke into that wide grin. All sharp teeth and incorrigible rascal. “Worried about me, love?”

She didn’t smile back. “Yes.”

His grin disappeared. “I told you, Swan -”

“I know,” she said quickly. She didn’t want him thinking she was doubting him. “I know,” she repeated, gentler, and looked him in the eye. “I’m a survivor too. So I know that living through something doesn’t mean you feel like roses afterwards.”

There was that shift in his eyes again. The bleakness. He looked away, the way he did sometimes. The way she did sometimes. They’d become quite a pair, bumping into each other’s insecurities, shying away from the spotlight of each other’s stare. Emma wasn’t discouraged. It was her turn to prod, her turn to coax, her turn to catch him if he decided to take a leap of faith.

She considered how to continue. If the situation were reversed he’d have some great declaration of devotion all keyed up for her. She thought about pouring him more rum, but that felt wrong, forceful, in a weird passive way. Instead she took his glass from him, laid her hand over his.

“You remember when Walsh turned into a monkey and tried to push me off the roof of my apartment in New York?”

He blinked, pulled out of his brooding enough for his head to cock, his lips to twitch.

“Part of what sucked about it - part of what hurt - was that I thought I was past this. This choosing the wrong guy thing...this superpower failing me thing. But there I was again, wrong. Wrong about...me. I thought I was past this kind of mistake, but I guess I wasn’t.”

A slow, bitter smile spread across Killian’s face. “Aye, Swan. I thought I was smarter than falling for Gold’s tricks after a few centuries, but I suppose not.”

Emma sighed in frustration. “Not what I meant.”

“But it’s true isn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Yes you do, you were in that clocktower. I must secretly love being the Dark One’s puppet since I always find myself playing the role.” He practically spat the words.

Emma suppressed the urge to wince. Yeah. Whatever progress she’d thought she’d made with relationships when she’d been with Walsh had definitely been a fluke. She clutched Killian’s hand, wishing she could quiet whatever he was thinking - feeling - magically through physical contact. She cast a round for what to say. For the right fucking thing to say.

Quietly, a stab in the dark, she asked, “Tell me how it happened?”

He glanced at her, vulnerable. It made Emma scared, scared she wouldn’t catch him right. Scared she wouldn’t be able to comfort him.

“I did, you know. Sort of.”

Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t comment. It sounded like a start.

“Left you a message on your device. But Gold destroyed it.”

Emma caught herself before she blurted _That’s where it went?!_ Not the time. Instead she stroked his wrist with her thumb and listened. Listened to him recount his side of their first date.

She didn’t realize that her grip on him was tightening, that her jaw was tensing, until he stopped to murmur, “Love?” all concerned.

“Sorry,” she said, trying to relax. Jeez, what kind of look must she have had on her face? “I just  thought that was a good night for us. Like we pressed pause on all the magical drama to have a normal date. Or as normal as _we_ get, anyway.”

“It should have been, Emma. I’m sorry.”

She frowned. “For what? It’s not your fault Gold’s a rat.”

He looked a little surprised at her vehemence, but he plowed on. “But I should have told you.”

Emma nodded slowly looking at their hands. At some point during his story she’d wound up sandwiching his between both of hers. The metal of his rings had grown warm. “You should have,” she said, “but I get why you didn’t.”

He shook his head, the bleak look back. “I can’t tell you how much I hated myself for it when I found you at that empty house.”

Emma squeezed his hand again, frustrated. “Stop that. I was so distracted with the magic stuff, then. But I could tell, later, there was something weird going on with you. I wish I’d -” she broke off and laughed at herself, bitterly.

“What?”

“I was almost jealous of Belle in that clocktower, you know?” She couldn’t help smiling bitterly. “Not because of her miserable situation, just...she knows Gold so well. He was keeping things from her too, but she put it all together with so few of the pieces. I wish I could have done that for you. Figured out what was happening, I mean, not...kick you out of town.”

Killian winced. “Aye. And I’d rather not be compared to the bloody Crocodile.”

She blinked. “You’re not. You’re nothing like him. I wouldn’t be…” She sighed, trying to explain herself. “I’ve had more than enough of relationships where someone isn’t being...true with me.”

Killian stiffened, his eyes wide with regret, and Emma rushed to soothe him, hands cupping his face and drawing him close.

“Hey,” she murmured, trying to pour her conviction into him through their shared gaze, “That’s what I mean. You’re _not_ like that. You’re just...like me. Used to taking care of things alone.”

Killian breathed out, heavy. “Yes,” he said, wholehearted.

She ran her thumb back and forth over his beard. “I guess we have our work cut out for us if we want to start taking things on together.”

He covered her hand with his, and gazed at her. “We just have to remember that we make a good team.”

She smiled, recognizing the echo from the beanstalk. “Yeah. We do.”

She felt his body shift in a sigh again, eyes full of peace. She felt a surge of satisfaction at having put it there. He stroked a lock of her hair, lazy, and she nudged forward to kiss him. Soft and sharply sweet, the way most of their kisses had been after Neverland.

When they pulled away, he glanced at the clock on his desk, resigned. “It’s late,” he said.

“Right,” she said. “I...I was thinking I’d stay.”

Killian stared at her.

“Not to... _do_ anything if - I mean - Not that - That’d be fine if -”

“Thank you,” Killian murmured, cutting off her waffling, with a little smile. Emma felt that surge again. It was more than satisfaction, it was preening pride, it was fierce protectiveness.

After a moment, Emma realized they’d lapsed into silence, staring at each other.

Oh.

This was something she hadn’t thought of.

The awkward bit _after_ the cathartic talk. Great.

Emma rubbed her hands on her jeans. She was nervous now that they’d settled it, unsteady with the force of all she was feeling. Killian watched her fidget. Was that a lip twitch? Was he laughing at her?

Finally she blurted, “I thought we could watch a movie.” She paused to reign in the volume. “You know, since you’re really gonna need to know what movies are. Especially if you keep hanging around my kid.”

“Yes, he’s mentioned them a few times,” Killian said, seemingly unperturbed by her weird mood shift. There was definitely a spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Well, they’re…” Emma waffled. “Moving pictures. _Motion_ pictures, is what they’re called. They’re like...plays? Recorded plays.”

He blinked at her. No comment apparently.

She reached for her bag figuring it would be easier to just get to it than explain. She’d picked it up from the floor by the desk, and pulled out her laptop. Killian’s chair creaked as he leaned back, relaxed, to watch her.

“I thought I could show you what they’ve got on Netflix and you could pick one that looks interesting.”

He shrugged, of course, probably not understanding her, but not seeming to care. “I’m sure I’ll like whatever you choose, love.” His voice was throaty with contentedness.

She took his cue, skimming through the Netflix categories. _Back to the Future_ , wasn’t available for streaming...she thought he might start picking at inaccuracies if they watched _Pirates of the Caribbean_...

She hesitated over _The Addams Family_. Good comfort fare. Though she worried Thing might be kind of insensitive, but Killian only snorted at her description. “As my hand didn’t actually turn out to have a mind of its own, I think I’ll be able to handle it.”

She reached over to touch his hook. “You don’t want me or Regina to try and reattach it for you?”

“Do _you_ care whether or not I have it?”

Emma frowned “No.”

“That’s what I assumed,” he said. “And I find I’m liking myself better now than as I used to be.” He shrugged. “And, for better or worse, what I am now is a man with a hook.”

“Yeah,” Emma said, “I can understand that. I’ve found I like myself better now, too. And I like you. As you are.” She smiled to herself. “I like us.”

Killian huffed a laugh. “Aye, love. So do I.”

Emma’s stomach had started to do an embarrassing sort of flutter whenever Killian laughed. Especially when she was the one who made him laugh. “Well, anyway,” she said gruffly, turning back to the computer, “I _think_ you’ll like this one? Everyone wears a lot of black, and there’s swordfights and chivalry and...French.”

He grinned. “ _A oui?_ ”

“ _Oui_ ,” she said back, smirking.

She set the computer on the bed and sat next to it to yank off her boots.

She noticed him staring at her from his chair and she slowed her movements, letting the leather slide from her fingers.

She thought she saw a flicker of possessiveness in his eyes before he stood to move her shoes by the door, toeing off his own boots and placing them next to hers.

She stood too, to shuck off her jacket and he appeared behind her to assist. She felt his breath stir her hair and suppressed a shiver. _Woa. Relax._

She sat back down on the bed, folding her legs like a pretzel and tucking her hair behind her ears. She watched as Killian walked back to the bed, flicking open the buttons on his left sleeve.

Emma was careful not to react. But she couldn't help the way her senses heightened, the way her focus narrowed on his fingers rolling back the fabric, on the slow reveal of dark hair and pink scar tissue and leather straps.

This was new. Not just her seeing him without his brace. Not just their spending the night together. But the simple intimacy of getting comfortable around each other. Of settling in to lounge together, not a common luxury in their case.

It was so _domestic_ . She should be freaking the hell out. Maybe later she would be. But now she was too busy soaking it in. All of him. Long and dark and lean, often dangerous, but now vulnerable, in his socked feet. Trusting, _shit_ , so damn at ease, as he undid the buckles on the straps. He tugged the brace off, hook and all, and dropped it on the night stand. Then he climbed over her, crowding her for a moment, but not touching her - not even brushing her by accident - as he moved around her to the empty space on the other side of the bed. His scent surrounded her, always managing to remind her of the sea, clear and salty. She hitched a breath.

He caught her eye as he settled next to her and betrayed himself with a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Exasperated, Emma gave him her best unamused glare and moved the laptop closer to start the movie. He chuckled as he slid his arm around her shoulder. Emma reached over and pulled his stump into her lap. She felt him stiffen, and was about to let go when he relaxed again. She slipped her hand under his sleeve and squeezed.

They both turned their attention to her laptop.

She caught his bewildered look at the opening with the carolers, but he laughed at Wednesday's shooting the apple in Pugsley’s mouth, and smirked at Morticia and Gomez’s flirting.

“The girl reminds me of you.”

“She does?”

“Aye. Weren’t you a little trouble maker as a lass?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Weren’t you?”

He mirrored her expression. “Oh yes.”

She grinned.

They were silent for a while - he, absorbed in the movie, and she, absorbed in him being absorbed in the movie. She felt him twitch every now and then at the more jarring smash cuts or pans, and she stroked his wrist to soothe him. She felt the pucker in his skin from the scars and wondered if it would be weird if she pushed his sleeve back to kiss them.

The auction scene came. Maybe her anticipation was a little sharper as she waited for his reaction. If there was one thing Killian loved (and could relate to), it was being a flirt.

He loved making love. Not in the physical, sexual sense - though she could bet he liked that too. But in that old-world, courtly, talking dirty behind a respectable veil of suggestion, way. Except, on him, and with a face he _knew_ looked like it did...Respectable? Only barely. Emma had been amused to find herself on the receiving end of it. Among other things.

Sometimes she wondered if she really rose to the challenge of all his double entendres. She did alright, in her own dry way, she thought. But now and then, over the last few months (and even, if she was honest with herself, before they’d started dating), she’d found herself worrying he didn’t find her a satisfying enough flirt.

All this to say, Gomez and Morticia were orgasmically outbidding each other when she glanced at Killian just as he glanced at her.

Coward that she was, Emma looked away too quickly to read his expression. But she could feel his body tense slightly around her. Christ, she hadn’t been quite so aware of how much they were _touching_ until now. She was pressed into him, hip to hip, his body warm through the knit of her top.

“Have you ever done it in public?”

There was a pause where she guessed he was registering that she had actually blurted out that ridiculous non-sequitur.

“Excuse me?” His voice was carefully neutral.

Emma’s cheeks were flaming, but she still nudged her chin towards the couple mauling each other in the middle of a crowded room. “Has that ever been you?” she asked, forcing herself to watch his reaction.

The smile that unfurled at that comment was one of his more evil ones. “Gentlemen never tell,” he said.

Emma stared at him. “Gentlemen don’t look like a cat who just made a meal of a whole bunch of canaries.”

He shook his head, smirk guarding his stupid sex secrets, and turned the question on her. “And you lass? Have you ever lost control with an audience?”

She scrunched her nose. “I was never much for PDA.”

He gave her an infinitely patient look

“Public Displays of Affection,” she explained, sheepish.

“Ah,” he said. “No, you wouldn’t.”

She shifted to get a better look at his face. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t take offense, love,” he said with a gentle smile. She felt his fingers carding through the  hair on her shoulder. “I like that you’re private. You’re protective of the things you love because you love them so fiercely.”

Oof. Emma felt that giddy fluttery feeling take ahold of her again. He had to stop ambushing her with stuff like that. “Thank you,” she said, softly.

“For what, love?” he said, just as softly. “It’s the truth.”

She had too look away again, shy. That’s what unsettled her about him. He made her shy.

“Maybe once or twice, to answer your question,” he said.

She gave him a withering look, but was grateful that he’d switched back to playful.

“I’ve certainly imagined it more than once with you.”

That made her ears perk. “Have you?”

“Aye.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Especially at the sheriff’s station.”

Emma snorted.

“Never thought I’d take a liking to shackles, but when it’s you doing the shackling...”

She stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

He grinned. “You doubt me?”

“Are you saying if I slapped cuffs on you right now -”

“Well, not for our first time.”

Their first time. The words sounded bolded. A title. Emma and Killian’s First Time. Emma could feel the blood drain from her face.

“Emma, what is it?”

She resisted the urge to say _Nothing_. She’d decided not to hide things from this man. Still, her words came out a bit too clipped when she said, “You have it all planned out then? Perfect? With candles and rose petals and champagne probably.”

“I…” He looked at her, a little bewildered. “I hadn’t made _plans_ , no...”

Guilt stabbed her. She opened her mouth to explain herself.

“But of course I’ve thought of it,” Killian went on. “I’ve thought of _you_ ,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Many a time. Sometimes with champagne and candles, sometimes with handcuffs. Sometimes on my ship if it were truly to be perfect. On the deck under the stars, or in my cabin, shutting out the rest of the world.” His voice had lowered, his accent making the words liquid. His eyes were as dark and as warm as the scenes he described. “Sometimes at your loft with everyone else gone, in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?” Emma mumbled, somehow quipping through the haze. His lips twitched.

“Aye. When you’re leading the room as if it’s a war council. You’ll say something particularly practical, or determined, or witty. And I’ll imagine dropping to my knees right there and tasting you. Your quim sweet and wet on my tongue. Worshipping you properly, as you should be.”

Emma sucked in a breath, his words and the rasp in his voice trailing down her spine. So much for respectability.

She was even more shocked when he looked away, when she saw the pink on his ears.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I didn’t mean to -”

“Keep going,” she said.

His gaze snapped to hers. He licked his lips and obliged, voice drawing quieter, reverent. “Sometimes you’re here,” he breathed. “When I’ve spent all day with you or when I’ve hardly seen you at all. When some miserable threat is plaguing the town. When I can’t sleep for some worry or when I’m dreaming, you’re here. You’re in my bed.” His eyes traveled the length of her.

She felt the look like a touch, like his hands dragging over her skin, like his mouth pressing against her, breath hot.

When he met her eyes again, his held that wry glint, that humor heavy with feeling. “I’m never rid of the thought, love. Never rid of you. You torture me.”

That was enough. That was enough for her mouth to find his. His clever, beautiful, sad mouth, slanting over hers with a groan. The arm around her shoulders catching her to him, locking them together. His body long and warm and firm against her breasts, her stomach. His hair soft under her fingers, his beard scratching her cheeks and her palm. His taste as she licked into his mouth, tongue massaging hers, hot and decadent.

Good. He was good. Very good at this. Not a new thought, but it was a miracle Emma was thinking at all in this state. She was all instinct and sensation, all of her focus occupied by the need to take this man, to devour him and be devoured by him, until they forgot all of their wounds, until they forgot their own names. Until there was nothing left but each other.

Fuck, she was wet. She could feel the thrill between her legs as she swung one over his hips to ease the ache. Her foot smacked something but she didn’t register it until a loud clatter made them both jump.

“The device,” Killian said, thickly, peering over the side of the bed. His hair looked thoroughly wild from all of the damage she’d inflicted on it. Emma bit her lip to keep a nervous laugh from escaping her.

Killian glanced at her. “Should we…?”

“Yeah. Uh.” Emma disentangled herself from him, her body protesting rather loudly, and picked up the computer. It was running fine, fan still whirring obnoxiously in her hands. She considered asking him if he wanted to finish the movie. She considered tossing the thing out the window and attacking him again.

“Are you...alright?” he asked, still hesitant, awkward, which was very weird for him. “I’m sorry if I -”

“No!” Emma jumped in. “I’m sorry, I know we’ve never talked about it before. Not really.”

Killian scratched his ear “I’m usually much more adept at this.”

“Me too,” she said. “I think it’s just been a long time since I’ve done it with someone I cared about.”

He gazed at her. “We’re in the same boat then.”

Emma turned away and placed the laptop back on his desk, fussing. “I really didn’t mean to do this tonight.”

“Didn’t mean to,” he repeated. “Did _you_ have plans for us, then, Swan? Champagne and roses?”

She smiled at the tease. “I guess I didn’t want to assume how you felt.”

Killian nodded, lips quirked. “Well, you know how I feel now.” He gave her her a prompting look. “Why don’t you tell me how you feel?”

Emma grimaced. “That’s something I’ve never been good at.”

He didn’t comment, only watched her, expectant, accepting.

“I feel…” she felt hot, she felt uncomfortable, an itch under her skin. She felt like her bra was too tight. She seized the whim and reached behind her, under her top, to unhook it.

His eyes widened as he watched her pull the straps  through her sleeves and slip the whole thing out from under her shirt. She brandished it awkwardly. “It’s, uh…”

“Stays,” he guessed, his eyes flicking back to hers, amused.

Emma huffed a laugh as she tossed the bra away. “Yeah, stays.” She tossed the bra somewhere and ran her hands through her hair as she approached him, not quite meeting his eyes.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes either but she discovered it was because he was staring at her chest. Emma bit down on another laugh. Typical.

He placed his hand on her waist, big and warm. She abruptly lost her mirth. His thumb stroked her side through her top. He dragged it up to the side of her breast and she clutched his shoulder to steady herself. “Have they gotten more comfortable?” he asked, voice deceptively light.

She blinked.

His lips twitched. “Stays,” he clarified.

Smirking, she took his hand and guided it under her top, ran his fingers over where the wire had left an indent in her skin. She heard him breathe in, stroking along the mark, frowning. Then he leaned in and kissed her through her top, underneath her breast, mouth hot and not even close to where she needed it.

Emma swallowed.

He leaned up and drew her into a light, teasing little kiss. “Tell me what you feel, Emma,” he goaded against her lips.

She gripped the fabric at his shoulders, gathering his shirt and vest in her fists. “I feel like you should lose this,” she murmured back.

He smiled into another kiss, and started undoing buttons.

Emma took her hands away from his shoulders, wanting to draw out the anticipation. Usually she had no patience for frivolous titillation or sweet nothings. But Killian was all about sweet nothings, and she wanted to let this nervous want grow, wanted to see where it would lead. She dug her nails into her jeans as he finished with the vest and tugged his shirt out of his pants.

She watched the strip of chest he was always showing off grow longer. She remembered him throwing off his raggedy disguise at the base of the beanstalk, smug and preening. Emma had always had kind of a thing for hairy men, though any appreciative thoughts she might have had about his looks at that time were quickly followed by annoyance.

It wasn’t the last time ogling his cleavage had left her feeling confused. She remembered glancing at it dubiously when they were at Zelena’s snowy farmhouse. She might have even snapped an “Aren’t you cold?” at him at one point. He’d responded with a knowing grin. She’d watched him out of the corner of her eye during lunches at the station, or traipsing through the woods looking for the latest monster. But now she could look at him unimpeded, no monsters, no hidden agenda, just Killian.

She felt like she was unwrapping him, pushing the clothing off his shoulders and kneeling between his knees. She felt his pulse drumming under his jaw. Thumbed the chain around his neck. He sat still, such a freaking gentleman. She moved her hands down between his pecks, brushed the hair outwards, let his nipple pop up between her index and middle finger. She studied it, relishing the way his chest pressed into her hand with his sharp intake of breath. She moved on, running her palms down his torso. She scratched a nail lightly through his goody trail, following it down to where it disappeared into his waistband. She hesitated there, wanting to just grip him through the leather, see her investigation to the end. But this wasn’t her usual one night stand, not her usual brazen routine.

He caught her hand in his and tipped his forehead to hers. “Now you?” he rasped, and it steadied her, knowing he was as affected as she.

Emma yanked off the knit top without preamble. Killian made a sound that almost sounded like a sigh. He gathered her close again. She rubbed his legs, forcing herself to hold still, to let him look his fill. He stroked her collar with his knuckles, she shivered from the cold of his rings and he murmured something wordless and soothing, leaning forward to kiss the place he’d touched. She shivered again, digging her nails into his legs.

He chuckled. “Impatient love?”

“Yes,” she hissed.

He kissed his way down to her right breast, brief, open-mouthed, sucking kisses, nipping at her skin. She gasped when he lapped once, long and teasing against her nipple before drawing it into his mouth.

The sound she made was mortifying. He looked up at her, mouth around her breast, eyes hungry and satisfied, desperate and predatory. Emma remembered his kitchen fantasy and was hit with the sudden vivid image of him giving her the same look from between her legs.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she muttered. She seized his face between her hands and dragged him up to kiss him into next week. They collapsed on the bed and she fell flush against him, wiry and hot and everywhere. Hair tickling her nipples, pendants on his necklace scratching her skin. She groaned and he growled, rolling them, leveraging himself with his knees so that he could grind that hard ridge right against her core. She clasped her legs tight around his waist.

Suddenly he tore his mouth from hers, and Emma blinked, dizzy and confused as she watched him twist off the first of his rings with his teeth. He cursed when the second one gave him trouble and glanced at her wildly. “Get them off,” he ordered, gruffly.

“Huh?” was all Emma could manage.

“Get them. Off.” He bit out the words, and Emma moved to comply, irritated through the haze of desire. Maybe he sensed this because he let out a strangled laugh before leaning in to nuzzle her neck. “Please love,” he whispered hoarsely. Her fingers slipped on the metal when he bit her gently. Fumbling, she managed to get them all off while he nipped at her earlobe.

For a guy with only one hand, he sure managed to make it feel like he was touching her everywhere at once. Stroking down her back, thumbing her nipple, dragging over her stomach and sliding home - right into her underwear.

He swallowed her stuttered gasp with a kiss. He petted her hair, parted it to stroke through her folds. Emma had the stray thought that he’d been insistent about taking off his rings for her comfort. Fucking gentleman.

He found her clit, brushing against the hood with his fingertip. He broke their kiss to watch her as he covered her whole mound with his hand and placed the heel of his palm right against that sensitive little bundle. He rubbed, stroking her lips, grinding lightly against her, making just enough friction to flip the switch, to make her arch up against his unyielding body.

“You’re to tell me how you like it, love,” he said, fingers playing at her entrance.

“I like _that_ ,” she whispered. “I’d like it more if you’d get the hell in me.”

She groaned as he sunk a finger into her folds, his thumb stroking her clit. He kissed her again, nipping at her bottom lip. “I could be dreaming right now,” he said, “except you feel too good to be a figment of my imagination.”

“Same,” was her inspired reply.

But he laughed. “Is it?” She gasped as he hit a particularly good spot, and his brow furrowed, mouth open to mirror hers. “Do you dream of this, too, Swan?”

She would have teased him about fishing for compliments, but he was so focused on her, drinking in her face, studying her reactions as he touched her. She found herself sniping, “Yeah, I think about you. When you’re annoying me I think about shutting you up.” He laughed, flicked her clit again. She hissed.

“Or when you scare me, running off into danger when I tell you not to,” he hummed consolingly at that, “I think about torturing you.”

He froze for a moment. Fixed her with a look of mock disapproval, but didn’t speak. She licked her lips, pushed on. “When you tell me something sweet or supportive, or when you’re just -” he brushed that place again, deep and tender inside her, “ _there_. When I need you and you’re there.” Her breath started to come in short pants. “A lot - I think about you - All the time. I just never get too far. I don’t like fantasies because then reality doesn’t hold up. That’s how it usually is.”

He’d eased off the pressure as she talked, circling around her clit. But now something flashed in his eyes and he dove into her again.

Emma let out a cry - a _cry_ , like a gothic novel heroine - and gripped his shoulder. “And?” He asked. “Is it a disappointment?”

She would have laughed at the drama of the statement if she weren’t so out of her mind with sensation. His thumb still kept attention on her clit while his other fingers worked, ruthless, on that place that made her teeth clench with its intensity.

Oh god, she was overwhelmed. By his touch and his voice and his kiss, which he groaned into as if he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t resist her. The kiss was wild and harsh, he was set loose, free to do all he threatened in looks, in flirtations. All those things she never knew how to respond to, now she could do nothing but respond. She was too far gone to know anything at all except him, surrounding her, inside her. He tore his lips away from her to watch her, his hair was a mess again, his face a mask of concentration and wild yearning that mirrored her own, eyes huge and blue. It was him. Finally.

Her orgasm ripped through her, the tension expanding, exploding, shooting out to her fingertips, to her toes. The rush unending and anchored by his fingers speared into her, by his gaze enveloping her, muttering words of encouragement.

It felt as if the whole night had passed when it was over. As if every thought and discomfort had been scooped right out of her. Killian slid his fingers out of her and sucked them clean. She shuddered watching him.

“No,” she said.

He looked at her.

“Not a disappointment.”

His eyes glazed over with a heady satisfaction, and he leaned down to tease her with a kiss. She could taste herself on his tongue.

Her fingers unclenched, sticky with sweat, and she realized she’d been clutching his rings in her fist the whole time. She presented them to him.

He rubbed her thigh with his wrist as he took them. She wondered at her pants still being on.

“We can stop here,” he said. “If you want.”

She stared at him. “Is that what you want?”

His brows twitched, and he glanced at the ceiling with a dry expression. “I think we’ve established that I want you all the time.”

“And what do you want to _do_ with me?” Emma prodded.

“Whatever _you_ want, love,” he prodded back.

“Okay,” she said, through with the preamble. She gripped his shoulders flipped them both sloppily with a tilt of her hips. She sucked in a breath as she landed on the bulge in his pants, which seemed to have grown more significant during her interlude. His eyes fell closed as she rubbed against him, lazy and feline, listening to his breath hitch. She felt the fuse spark again, as easy as if he’d snapped his ridiculously talented fingers.

“I want _this_ ,” she purred through his groan. He arched up to capture her mouth again. They kissed, drunk and languid, clutching each other. Emma jerked as she felt the metal of the freaking rings he still held in his hand bite into her side. He started to pull away but she anchored their kiss with a hand at the base of his head, while with the other she took the jewelry away from him again and tossed it. He grinned into her mouth as the rings pinged across the floor.

Emma shoved both hands into his hair and set about wrecking him. Bowling him over, as if she could suck his release right out of him. She remembered Neverland, but that had been different. Then she’d been feeling like her old self, cocky and ready to throw a man off guard, not a desperate mother searching for her son in a magical hell.

Now, she wanted to take him apart for its own purpose, for his own pleasure. For the noise he made when she ground down on his hips. For the ridiculously decadent expression on his face as he cupped her breast, thumbed her nipple.

He bent down to her again and sucked.

She bucked against him and gasped, the sound high and sharp.

And he stiffened, suddenly, releasing her to shove his hand into his pants to grip himself.

Emma gaped at him, his face flushed and twisted with concentration. He laughed grimly at her. “Look what you do to me,” he muttered. “I’m a disgrace.”

Emma took an unsteady breath at the thrill of having Killian underneath her, abusing himself to stave off his release.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, so we should take this slow.” A thought occurred to her. “Also.” Gingerly, she climbed off of him, crawling over to open the bedside table drawer.

“What are you doing?” he asked, behind her.

“Ruby told me Granny keeps them in all the rooms,” she said as she rummaged, “which I could not fucking un-hear. But I guess it’s good that I didn’t forget.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“These,” Emma said, hand closing over the little box in the drawer.

Killian propped himself up on his elbows and watched her curiously as she took too long tearing the box open. Finally she held up a condom with a lame flourish. “They’re -” she stopped. “Did you guys have contraceptives where you’re from?”

“Ah, French letters.”

“...Sure.”

Killian grinned suddenly. “Is that what I look like when I can’t place one of your modern contraptions? Because I can see why you’d find it endearing.”

“Don’t get full of yourself now -”

“Of course not, love,” he growled. “I want to fill _you._ ”

Emma rolled her eyes even as she felt the words shoot straight between her legs. “Do you know what to do with this, or should I do it myself?”

There was a spark in Killian’s gaze and he fell back, hand and stump coming up to rest behind his head. “I bow to your expertise.”

“Oh my god,” Emma muttered. She stood and turned to take him in, sprawled out, dwarfing the bed. How the hell did he sleep here every night?

She noticed his gaze was lingering on her chest, and remembered she was naked from the waist up. She pursed her lips and his grinned widened.

“You know, you’re lovely when you’re irritated,” he said.

“I want you enough that I’m gonna ignore that,” Emma said before she placed the condom between her teeth so she could have both hands free to get his freakin pants off already.

“Just a jest -” he fell silent as she kneeled over him, making quick work of his zipper and yanking the leather down over his hips.

Captain Hook was a boxers guy.

Emma felt her face flush and she turned when she tossed his pants away, hoping he wouldn’t see. What was up with her? Why was she so shy about this?

“Love?” his hand encircled her wrist and he tugged her down to look into her face. He took the condom from her mouth and his left wrist brushed her hair over her shoulder. She recognized the motion as one he’d done before, with his hook. It made her feel soft and weird, it made her blush harder.

It made her search for his kiss and he was there immediately, soothing her with lips and teasing tongue and teeth. He drew her close and rolled them, rising over her, solid and safe. The pendants on his chain came rest on her breast bone again. She fiddled with the chain, trailed her hands down his chest as he kissed and nipped at her neck. She hooked a finger under the waistband of his boxers, no longer impatient, but curious. His kisses slowed.

“Emma?”

She slid under the fabric and took him into her hand.

He froze, his teeth bared.

She stroked him, lost in her discovery, lost in his reaction.

He drew a deep unsteady breath and searched her gaze. “Do you want this?” he asked.

“Yes,” she responded, sure of that, at least, even if the rest of her feelings felt so foreign.

“Then will you open this bloody thing?” he said brandishing the condom.

Emma snorted and took it from him. She ripped it open as he divested them of the last of their clothing.

She rolled the condom on him without preamble, impatient again, and he followed her lead, only stopping to kiss her again before he slid home.

Home. All of him, and there was quite a bit of him, suddenly there, suddenly everywhere, fusing them together.

It all came at her in a rush. The satisfaction, getting exactly what she desperately needed in this moment. It was a rare feeling. It was magic, peace whatever you want to call it. Not peace. That was too...peaceful. Too calm for this wild, rolling, need, rising up just as it was being sated. And it was precious to feel this good, to feel this right. Even now, at the bookend of a crisis, there was no telling whether the morning would bring another. She had to seize the damn moments whenever they appeared. She had to seize this night and this man who was troubled like her, but who was trying like her. This man who looked at her like she was _his_ savior, but who somehow still made her feel like she didn’t have to be perfect, like she was glorious just as she was.

She wondered if he noticed she’d started to look at him the same way.

Except for the savior bit, because Emma didn’t need anyone to save her.

Just love her.

 _Fuck. Not now._ It was too much, too much to be thinking about that _now_ . She gasped and started blinking rapidly because there were _tears_ coming out of her eyes. “I’m sorry. _Wow_ , I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, love,” he murmured, body tense above her, watching her intently.

She laughed at the on-the-nose endearment. “I’m really sorry, I know this shouldn’t be a big deal-”

“It is.”

She looked at him. His eyes were wide and serious. “It’s a big deal,” he said.

Somehow, her mind picked out the very dumb crack in the phrase. Emma let out a weird strangled hiccup that made him blink.

“Yeah,” she said, “it’s...”

His lips twitched. “Big.”

She tittered. “Really big.”

They burst out laughing right there. Naked and sweaty with pirate king Killian Jones _inside_ of her, and they were _laughing_.

“I swear, Emma,” Killian said, gasping (man, his face was _red_ ), “I _didn’t_ mean it that way.”

“I know you didn’t,” Emma weezed.

They laughed harder, and his face ended up buried in her neck, her arms and legs wrapped tight around him as they _shook_.

It was a weird sensation, feeling the rumble of his laughter all through his body, even where they were joined. And as she laughed, she could feel herself spasm too, everywhere, and tighten.

She heard his breath hitch.

Her laughter died, abruptly. She ran her hand up to the hair on the back of his neck and griped a handful while, purposefully, _ruthlessly_ , she _squeezed_.

And Killian _groaned_.

She flipped him on his back, his head bouncing on the mattress, arms coming up to steady her by the waist. She paused. “Is this okay?” she asked.

“It’s bloody, fucking, _fantastic_ ,” he rasped. “You’re -”

She pinned his wrists down on either side of his head and his eyes widened. “You -” he tried again.

She started to ride him, her ass slapping lewdly against his thighs. He closed his eyes and moaned, back arching off the mattress. She could see the strain in his neck as he bared his teeth, the shine of sweat on his skin and the fur on his chest. His eyes opened again, almost black with desire and he bucked underneath her, pressing against the tender place inside her that made her stutter and squeeze. She saw the triumph in his eyes, and retaliated by diving back into her harsh pace, making him gasp. They kept up the rhythm, she relentless and he mindless, driving into each other. She watched his jaw slacken, his beautiful, plush mouth falling open, mute.

For all his lovely words he might be at his filthiest when he was completely speechless.

“Oh love,” he managed, finally. “You’re -”

She dropped down to her elbows, fisting the sheet behind his head, his breath brushing her face in short hot pants, and sucked his bottom lip into her mouth. He slid his hand between them to brush against her clit. She gasped, opening her eyes as she ground against him. He was sweaty and frantic, hair standing on end, eyes huge and full and drowning her. He was precious.

And fuck, she was crying again.

“ _You’re everything_ ,” he finished, the words whispered harshly and quickly smothered by her own mouth. She kissed him with everything she had, with all the adrenaline and fear and excitement and deep seeded contentment and _rightness_ of everything she felt, of everything he made her feel, and it was too much, still too much, always too much to contain -

She sobbed with her release, too overwhelmed to worry about the display, too out of her mind to even be aware of it. Somewhere at the tail end of it she felt him arch and stiffen beneath her, hand coming up to brace the back of her head as he kissed her furiously.

And when she came back into her body, they were still kissing, slowly now, lazy. Tender. He trailed away from her mouth to kiss the tears off of her cheeks and she saw that he had them too. She returned the favor.

She stroked his hair back, pressed her forehead to his, closed her eyes, and just _felt_. The thought thoroughly fucked out of her. And good thing too because if she started thinking now she’d probably start crying again.

After some time, he shifted them from the weird diagonal position they’d fallen into across the bed. He kissed her in response to her sound of protest when he pulled out of her. He stood to dispose of the condom, frowning at it before tossing it into the trash bin next to the desk. She felt her eyes closing but she still stared at his ass he disappeared into the bathroom.

She felt something cold on her thigh and opened her eyes to find him cleaning her with a wet washcloth from the bathroom. His movements were focused and matter of fact as he performed the intimate little service.

“I came over to take care of you.” The thought just fell out of her mouth as it formed in her head.

Killian looked up at her and smiled, naked and rumpled and...happy. “I know,” he said. “You did. You do.”

That made her smile too. God, she must look like a doof. She’d leave feeling embarrassed for tomorrow.

He got rid of the washcloth and climbed into bed with her, tugging the covers loose and over them. He pulled her close, surrounding her, and Emma promptly drifted into sleep.

…

The stupid sun was hitting her right in the face.

Emma grunted, squeezing her eyes tight, trying to block out the light. She turned her face into the warm, solid surface under her cheek, rubbed her nose into the hair she found there.

She heard a grunt. “You’ve a cold nose, love.”

She opened her eyes to find Killian blinking awake. He was wrapped around her, arm under her head, legs tangled with hers.

She stared up at him and the giddy, joyful feeling she’d started to get around him - the one that happened whenever she made him laugh, whenever he made one of those declarations that hit her like a ton of bricks - rose in her chest, strong, filling her to her fingertips, to her toes where they rubbed against his calves.

He studied her face and broke into a wide smile, one that must match the one she felt stretching her own cheeks.

“Do you think,” she said, “if we stay in bed, that the rest of the town will just leave us in peace?”

He laughed, his teeth sharp, his eyes bright. Emma felt herself thrill, and she didn’t care.

“I’m all for testing that theory.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This took me a lot of nights screaming "Just do it already!!" at my computer screen to finish.
> 
> Be my friend on tumblr: [youre-not-a-cat-youre-a-rat](youre-not-a-cat-youre-a-rat.tumblr.com)
> 
> I'm a thirsty ass bitch for comments!


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